


the nurse who loved me

by deadlybride



Series: A Perfect Circle [21]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Mind Control, M/M, Minor Violence, Possession, Season/Series 09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 01:27:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10843638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: Sam loses time.





	the nurse who loved me

**Author's Note:**

> A Perfect Circle - _The Nurse Who Loved Me_ , track nine on _Thirteenth Step_

_Say hello to the shrinking in your head:_  
_you can't see it, but you know it's there, so don't neglect it._

 

Sam walks into a bar.

There’s a hunt. Werewolves, maybe, or ghouls. He and Dean have been working the case and he’s still not sure which it is, which is kind of a worry. Either way—he knows what works. He sits at the bar and pops his neck, shrugs his shoulders, but it’s just out of habit. He’s not sore anymore, not tired. A relief, after the long months of feeling so shitty with the trials. He can have a beer now without puking, while he waits for Dean to get back from interviewing the sheriff, and hell, he’s going to indulge. Been long enough without.

The bartender’s tall—maybe as tall as Sam is. “What do you need?” he says, and he’s not smiling.

_Sam’s dreaming. There’s a hunt, he thinks, and it’s something—it’s pulling at his attention. Angels, and he doesn’t know why he’s so scared of them, why there’s some kind of hollow yawning dread pulling open the pit of his stomach. He looks at Castiel and feels no warmth, feels nothing but pure skittering terror and he_

Sam walks into a bar. The light’s dim, the bar long and dark and familiar. Bars are all the same, in the end, and he takes a stool close to the end, leans his elbows on the counter. He wants a drink. The bartender stands in front of him, silent, and Sam says, “Hey, just a pint of whatever’s on tap,” but the bartender doesn’t move. He’s tall. Maybe Sam’s age, or Dean’s. He frowns, sits up a little more. Thinks, maybe the guy didn’t hear him, and he says, “Hey, buddy?” because it pays to be polite even with assholes, and the bartender leans his hands on the counter, looks right into Sam’s eyes, and

_Sam spreads his thighs wider, stretches out against the plush leather back of the armchair. Dean’s mouth is—god. He’s almost too sensitive, but the soft thorough cleaning he’s getting is just so good he can’t find it in himself to complain. Rough hands smooth up over his belly, pet over his hips, and when Dean goes to pull back Sam picks his head up off the chair back with an effort, cups the back of Dean’s head and runs his fingers through the soft short hair. “My turn, isn’t it,” he says, and he’s drowsy but he really is more than willing, only Dean picks his head up and licks his lips and grins, and maybe it’s not the wide pleased got-the-cream smile Sam’s used to but it’s pleased enough, and he says, “Nah, I’m just feeling greedy, Sammy,” and he leans in and kisses Sam, soft, quick enough that Sam finds himself leaning forward, wishing for more. Dean’s already zipping him up, though, neatening him away. Sam wishes he would look up. He wants to see Dean’s eyes, and he doesn’t know why Dean isn’t_

Sam walks into a bar and the bartender looks right at him. It’s like he was waiting. Sam sits at the bar and leans on his elbows, asks for a beer.

The bartender looks at him.

Sam drinks his beer, cold bitter at the back of his tongue, and the bartender looks at him. “What do you need?” the bartender says.

Sam puts his pint down and shrugs. “I’m good,” he says, and it’s the truth. Nothing hurts, and there’s a hunt, and Dean’s healthy and happy, and everything is as it should be. Not like this guy needs to know that, though.

“Of course,” the bartender says, slowly. He talks stiffly, awkwardly. “You are—happy.”

Sam frowns a little, though he smiles, too. “Yeah, buddy,” he says, and toasts the guy with his beer. “I’m good.”

_There’s—blood, oh—oh, shit, there’s so much—blood purling out from between his fingers, a weird lucky shot and Dean’s crying out, yelling his name across the awful reeking basement, and Sam wavers, shocked, stares at the blood on his fingers for a weird moment thinking, he didn’t expect this, that this terrible dusty place and this stupid ghoul would be the end, after everything, and he falls to his knees and feels the blood warm against his chilled skin and thinks, Dean—_

Sam walks into a bar. There’s a hunt. There’s something—wrong, maybe, but he can’t quite put his finger on it. The bartender is gripping hard onto the brass railing. “Whatever’s on tap,” Sam says, and the bartender looks up at him with weird grief on his face, something so vivid that Sam startles still, for a second, frozen half onto the bar stool, and the bartender says, “I am sorry, Sam Winchester,” and Sam thinks _what_ , he thinks _how do you_ and he also thinks _why_ but then the bartender squeezes his eyes closed and bows his head and

_There’s time missing. Miles go by and Sam isn’t—he doesn’t remember them. Dean’s worried, he can tell, even though all he gets when he talks about it is dismissal, lots of ‘oh, the trials,’ and ‘you just need more time to heal,’ and, well, Sam loves him but Dean talks a lot of bullshit, a lot of the time. He’ll crawl out of Dean’s bed and go take a shower and then blink at himself in the mirror, completely dressed and brushing his teeth, and have no idea what happened in the interim. He’ll go for a jog and not remember a thing. He looks at himself in the mirror and he’s okay, he recognizes himself, but sometimes, sometimes he’ll open his own eyes and there in the split second when his eyelids part his eyes spark unfamiliar and he thinks_

Sam walks into a bar. There’s a hunt, he knows there is. He just—can’t remember the details, right now.

The bartender looks like he’s been crying, though Sam doesn’t notice until after he’s already asked for a pint, and by then it’s too late—he sits there, awkward, while the guy goes through the motions, pouring off the foam, setting the full glass carefully in front of Sam on a neat square coaster. “Thanks,” Sam says, trying to pass it off as normal.

“Do not thank me,” the bartender says, voice a deep scrape. He leans on the brass rail, right in front of Sam, looking into some middle distance. Sam takes an awkward sip—cold, bitter hops lingering in the back of the throat like sorrow, and it’s hard to swallow it down. The bartender closes his eyes. He says, “I am not sure of my course.”

Sam puts the glass down, cups his hands around the cold solidity of it. “Nobody is,” he says. The bartender blinks at him, and hell, Sam’s half-surprised himself, but this guy doesn’t expect him to be Agent Rose, or a hunter with the answers. They’re just two guys, talking.

“Do you not think—“ the bartender starts, and swallows. He folds his arms over his chest, standing stiff and straight. “I thought, always, that there must be a plan, for all of us. That there must be meaning. Now, I am not so sure.”

Sam shrugs. He and Dean have had this conversation, in various ways, half a dozen times. He always feels like he comes to a different conclusion. “I don’t know the answer to that,” he says, semi-honestly. “I think, all you can ever do is what you believe is right.” The bartender looks directly at him, and Sam shrugs, again. “I mean, what’s the alternative?”

There’s a pause, and the bartender nods. “Of course,” he says, but quietly, like he doesn’t mean for Sam to hear—or like it doesn’t matter, if he does. Sam sips his beer and the bartender nods, and meets his eyes. He seems taller, brighter. His shoulders square out and for a second Sam sees him—pure, strong. Beautiful, and that thought’s a surprise but the bartender earns it, somehow. He smiles at Sam and it’s—beautiful. He says, “Thank you, Sam Winchester,” and all Sam can see after that is light.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/160398589039/the-nurse-who-loved-me)


End file.
